Angela Hartnett

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“I put myself around enough with my restaurants without being in everyone’s face in the supermarket too”

I can’t be the only woman in Britain who feels sick when she catches sight of
some of the famous female cooks out there, be it sucking their fingers in
bed after too much scrummy double-chocolate devil’s food cake or wearing an
excess of gingham while burbling on in a child’s voice about cupcakes.

Angela Hartnett — thank the Lord — is not such a woman. She doesn’t need to
be. One can’t imagine her blurring the language of cooking with sex talk:
“thick”, “creamy”, “lovely hunk of meat” and so on. Having said that — and
this was before I met her